


Ordinary Magic

by jitteryjots



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Break Up, Post-Time Skip, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, Soul-Searching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25087318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jitteryjots/pseuds/jitteryjots
Summary: Bokuto was a star but Akaashi no longer felt like catching him, no longer felt like struggling to keep up just to be with him, no longer looked up and yearned.Akaashi only wanted small wonders now — a constant companion, a good meal together, a promise that I will stay, I will be there, and someone actually following through. He no longer sought scraps of exuberant affection that lasted only on practice-free days but instead longed for a good morning, a good night —an acknowledgment of his existence slowly coalescing with somebody else’s— not the blazing, blinding wildfire of love, but the warmth that stays, the tiny spark that lights a scented candle, the embers that provide warmth even after being doused.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu
Comments: 58
Kudos: 232





	1. Fall

On the third day after Akaashi’s break-up with his boyfriend of more than four years, Tenma Udai was struck with a burst of inspiration and had managed to create the next chapter of his manga four days ahead of schedule. Akaashi’s other mangaka, Tomoe-sensei was still recovering from a wrist injury that forced her series off into a hiatus. He begged, or as close as he could to begging, his managing editor to please let him have Friday and the weekend off, citing personal concerns that he could attend to while his desk was slightly free —which was a rare, if not unheard of, event happening in the manga department of any publishing house. 

The brutal pace of a manga’s publication cycle managed to distract him enough from facing the reality that he and Bokuto were no longer together. He instigated the breakup but he still felt a little lost. A huge part of his identity was formed because of Bokuto and his memories had Bokuto in them for the last six years. His studio apartment had Bokuto’s mugs, his toothbrush, Bokuto’s clothes that he should really mail back to the Jackals’ dorms. His own life had so much of the other man’s life reflected in them that it was so hard to breathe, so hard to be just with his thoughts, to figure out who he was again and what he wanted out of life.

His managing editor granted him a leave with a stern warning to keep checking in with Udai-sensei and the printers. Without much thought, Akaashi packed a bag for two days and boarded the first bullet train that left Tokyo that early Friday afternoon after arriving at the station.

At the huge Tokyo station which would baffle any one who hasn’t set foot in a major train transfer line, Akaashi found himself buying, what the store called a traveller’s notebook, and a hugely overpriced pen to join him on his trip. 

—

Akaashi had always loved stories. 

He grew up with a father who tucked him every single night with a bedtime story. Stories and volleyball were the two most dearest thing to his heart and he chose the former as a career. Although he really wanted to work on novels, Akaashi liked being a manga editor enough and it hit him with a startling clarity on his second week that if he could survive the jungle of manga publication, he can survive anything in the publishing industry. 

_“I will always care for you, Keiji.”_

_“As will I, Bokuto-san.”_

The hypnotising lull of the train was leading his mind towards the still-fresh memories and Akaashi willed himself not to remember the pain that flashed across Bokuto’s face at being called by his last name.

Breaking up was for the best.

He knew that clinging to his first love was detrimental to both their future selves. Akaashi was feeling the beginnings of resentment at cancelled plans, the no-shows because practice ran late or this and that excuse, even though all of Bokuto’s reasons were valid. But he refused to take time away from Bokuto when it comes to volleyball and training. He knew, getting into this relationship, that he would always come second to the sport he once loved and he used to be okay with that. 

It has been six years since he first met Bokuto and four since they started dating. For over a third of his life, Bokuto was a constant consideration in his mind. For a long time he enjoyed minding Bokuto and his moods immensely. 

It had taken an offhand comment from Yamaguchi, of all people, to jolt him. Yamaguchi and Tsukishima were on an odd trip to visit an exhibition in Tokyo and Akaashi invited them over for dinner and drinks at his apartment. 

_“Tsukki always messages when things are about to get hectic and he can’t reply as often.”_

It was a simple comment over drinks but it bothered him. The sentence hung like a lingering cold, mostly forgotten but would occasionally rear its ugly head in a small sneeze, a slight chill on your way back home.

Akaashi loved stories because they slowed life down. They observed a part of someone’s life and framed it into easily digestible chunks —made you understand another person’s psyche and life. Sometimes, the right words find you at the right time and somewhere in the geographies of language, you find yourself a little less lost when what you’re feeling is given a shape and given a name. 

Akaashi didn’t have words for what he felt then. He still didn’t have them now.

Several months passed with little texts here and there and a few calls between. Several “sorry Keiji I can’t make it after all” and he ended up one day in Kenma’s house, near tears. 

It had been Kuroo who gave him his first hug in weeks —he didn’t even realize he was touch-starved. There were only two hours and 30 minutes by the fastest bullet train from Tokyo to Osaka where the Jackals had their training center and those hours might as well be half a world away with how frequently they’ve been seeing each other. 

Kuroo cuddled with him until the sobs stopped racking his body on Kenma’s spare bedroom. His huge hands mindlessly sifting through Akaashi’s curls, a comfort he didn’t know he needed until then. Akaashi pretended to sleep when Hinata barged into Kenma’s house with Kageyama, their exuberant voices carrying from the living room. 

Kuroo left him then, and the loud voices went away. It wasn’t that Bokuto was neglectful, or Hinata wasn’t taking his training seriously, Akaashi thought. It just so happens Hinata’s lover was a setter who had been to the Olympics and they can train together on days off. Unlike Akaashi who hasn’t set foot in a volleyball court in years.

Akaashi didn’t have words to articulate what he felt then too. Only that there was a hollowness that had gone ice-cold in him and a voice saying he wasn’t enough then and he wasn’t enough now. 

Akaashi broke up with Bokuto on his birthday. The crisp cold air of the fifth of December. The transition from fall to winter. Bokuto finally visited him in Tokyo with a bouquet of flowers, as if it erased the past months. Someone once said love dies only due to neglect and he examined the roses, wondering if they were enough to settle the stormy waves lurching and lurching in his chest until he could no longer breathe properly. Bokuto never missed the big days but he couldn’t help but want him _—want someone—_ on the ordinary days too.

Bokuto had agreed to the breakup with hesitation, clinging on to the promise of spring, which Akaashi didn’t think would happen. 

_“I’ll win you back after the Olympics, Keiji.”_

Bokuto uttered those words with a conviction that would’ve once made Akaashi’s resolve waver and would make him look at the other man with stars in his eyes. But instead, the words showered Akaashi with a cold clarity that _this was it, there’s no going back._

Akaashi thought then, that perhaps subconsciously he was testing the other man, and Bokuto failed. It was unfair of him, a part of him thought. Maybe, in another life Akaashi would’ve have gotten angry instead of introspective and they would’ve fought, talked, and worked things out.

But one thing was clear for Akaashi at that moment: his life no longer stopped and went on in accordance to Bokuto’s schedule. 

Bokuto was a star but Akaashi no longer felt like catching him, no longer felt like struggling to keep up just to be with him, no longer looked up and yearned. Akaashi only wanted small wonders now — a constant companion, a good meal together, a promise that I will stay, I will be there, and someone actually following through. He no longer sought scraps of exuberant affection that lasted only on practice-free days but instead longed for a good morning, a good night _—an acknowledgment of his existence slowly coalescing with somebody else’s_ — not the blazing, blinding wildfire of love, but the warmth that stays, the tiny spark that lights a scented candle, the embers that provide warmth even after being doused. 

—

One hundred and ninety-five minutes and Akaashi had finally arrived to his destination. Himeji. Akaashi didn’t know he was figuratively holding his breath but he felt relieved that he didn’t end up in Osaka. His notebook was as pristine as when he first bought it. It was early evening and after a quiet meal of curry in one of the restaurants near the train station, he ended up in one of the capsule hotels tourists enjoy going to. He resolved to find better accommodation in the morning but for now, there was a pen and a paper. 

Come morning, the pen remained unused and the notebook was left blank. 

—

Akaashi had not been in Himeji before and he idly looked up on his phone where he could go. He dismissed the Himeji Castle which would be rampant with tourists and opted to visit Mt. Shosha.

Mt. Shosha was also busy and upon looking at the temple and the ropeway littered with so many tourists, Akaashi decided to escape to a side street at the foot of the mountain and to eat a late breakfast on a hole in the wall ramen shop.

To his surprise, Miya Osamu was loudly slurping his noodles on the counter.

“Myaa-Sam?”

Osamu looked up and grinned in recognition.“Akaashi-kun, yes? Osamu if ya wou’d.”

Akaashi took the seat next to Osamu and ordered a tsukemen ramen. “Is your shop closed, Osamu-san?”

“Landlord’s fixin’ a busted pipe so we had to close for a few days. Here doin’ a favor for my gran’s friend. How ‘bout ya? Whatcha doin’ in Himeji, Akaashi-kun?”

“Soul-searching, I guess.”

“Ain’t gonna find that in a tourist spot, ‘kaashi-kun.”

Osamu gave a contemplative side eye and Akaashi hummed in acknowledgment. He was not really paying attention, only wondering if somehow Osamu knew, if Atsumu who must know had shared.

“Ya know what? Ya free today?” 

Akaashi nodded.

“Ya wanna see the first step in making Onigiri Miya?”

With nothing better to do and a huge curiosity about one of his favorite food, Akaashi ate the delicious tsukemen with gusto and requested that they pick up his bags in his hotel nearby before they go.

—

Their destination was a small rice field nestled somewhere in Yabu, Hyogo. Nearly two hours had passed in relative silence, with Osamu occasionally mentioning the name of a new place or a point of interest. Akaashi was content to look out the window of Osamu’s small truck and gaze at the expanse of rice fields against the powdery blue sky. Hyogo was cold but not exceedingly so. Winter was just starting to let its presence known. 

“Ya look like ya have stars in yer eyes.”

“My eyes are unused to the mountains. Have some consideration, Osamu-san.”

Bantering with Miya Osamu felt too easy. It discomfited Akaashi a little. He hasn’t made any close friends after Furokadani, after all.

“Ya look all stiff and polite but yer actually funny ain’t ya, ‘Kaashi?”

“Whatever you say.”

“We’re almost near Kita-san’s place.”

“Your former captain?”

“Yep! The madman decided to be a farmer after high school. It caught us a little off-guard but it made lots of sense.” Osamu turned to Akaashi, grinning. “Ya know, we’re gettin _shinmai_ today. Yer in for a’treat.”

Onigiri Miya was already a favorite. Akaashi mentally drooled at the thought of eating it freshly prepared with rice fresh from the new harvest.

“I can’t wait.”

—

Kita Shinsuke was both smaller and broader than he remembered from high school. He stood in front of a small house overlooking a rice field that stretched as far as Akaashi’s eyes could see until the horizon gave over to Hyogo’s mountains against a pale winter sky. Kita had the body of a man who toiled the soil and stood like he belonged to the fields and to the tiny gods that watch over human beings. The effect, thought Akaashi, was somehow ruined by the black Balmain Paris sweater he wore.

“Heya, Kita-san!” Osamu greeted as soon as he parked the small truck and they both exited.

“Hello, Osamu,” Kita paused. “And Akaashi-kun, is that right? Furokodani’s setter?”

Akaashi nodded, eyeing the other’s shirt. He wanted to return the greeting but choked over his words instead. Akaashi wanted to slap his hands over his face in embarrassment but refrained out of politeness.

“Ah, is there something wrong?”

“Oh, oh no. I’m sorry! Hello, Kita-san. I’m Akaashi Keiji,it’s very nice to meet you.” Akaashi bowed, probably more deeply than required.

“Likewise, Akaashi-kun.” Kita returned the bow. “Now tell me, is there somethin’ wrong with my shirt? It’s a gift from Atsumu.”

“Nothing at all—”

“Is it one of those stupid luxury brands?” Osamu interjected.

Akaashi nodded and to his surprise, Kita made a soft tsk in response. Kita chose not to comment and instead, opened the door of his house.

“Well, both of ya come on in, it’s gettin’ cold. Make yer selves at home.”

“Excuse us for intruding!” Both Akaashi and Osamu called out.

Osamu leaned a little close to Akaashi as they entered and said under his breath, “Atsumu gave Kita-san Gucci sneakers for his birthday. Kita-san was angry when he found out how much they cost and lectured Tsumu for giving someone who works in the mud all day long designer shoes.”

Akaashi chuckled, delighted at the antics of the Jackals’ setter.

Kita’s house was warm and felt lived in despite the extreme neatness. It was a small house but Akaashi felt embarrassed at how organized everything was, in comparison to the tiny studio he lived in. Even inside, the air in Hyogo felt fresh and so unlike what Akaashi was used to. He felt as though he was breathing a little easier, a little lighter.

He watched as Kita started preparing to make tea, the other man’s movements were purposeful and deliberate and Akaashi appreciated the thoughtfulness in each action. Just by looking, he could tell the tea would be simple but delicious.

Osamu joined Kita in the kitchen and Akaashi watched as he took the cooked _shinmai_ from the pot and started to prepare the ingredients for onigiri. He must’ve done this several times already, with how familiar he was with everything was located. Akaashi briefly wondered how often Osamu made the effort and the long drive from Kobe to Hyogo to visit his former captain.

Osamu salted his hands and grinned at Akaashi. “Wanna help?”

His culinary skills extended to cutting vegetables, cooking rice, and frying. He briefly recalled his mother teaching him when he was in grade school how to shape onigiri and never having done it again since. It was always easier to buy from the konbini scattered everywhere in Tokyo.

“Uh, sure.”

His onigiri looked gross and misshapen next to Osamu’s.

The three of them sat on Kita’s table and Akaashi briefly considered apologizing for wasting good _shinmai._

“Itadakimasu!” They all called out.

Osamu hummed as he ate one of Akaashi’s onigiri. “Not bad, ‘Kaashi-kun.”

“It’s the shinmai, I’m sure.”

To his surprise, Kita took one of his onigiri as well and said after taking a bite, “Don’t sell yerself short, Akaashi-kun. You never know who’s listening.”

Osamu’s onigiri was wonderful. Small magical bursts of flavor in his mouth. It was just onigiri. He would eat one at least twice a week. He couldn’t put his finger on why this tasted so good in comparison to convenience store onigiri.

The meal was peaceful and quiet. Akaashi wondered if Kita would ask why he was here but the two only made small talk and Akaashi was content to eat Osamu’s onigiri quietly, along with Kita’s green tea.

Kita led them to his storage shed after the meal. Between the three of them, the sacks of _shinmai_ were easily loaded into Osamu’s small truck. As Osamu secured the sacks and covered them with a heavy waterproof material, Kita finally asked why he was in Hyogo.

Later on the road back to Kobe, Akaashi would think about this moment. He couldn’t recall his answer, only that he blanked out a bit at the suddenness of the question. He remembered saying that a chapter of his life ended and he needed a breather and the cold air bit into his cheeks. Akaashi swore the wind blew more softly into him then —like a friend’s comforting touch.

He could recall Kita being quiet, making no judgments or offers of comfort. Kita took a deep breath then and Akaashi wondered if he could also feel the odd lingering touches and whispers of the wind.

“Winter is untameable. This we know, so we harvest before it comes and wait for spring to plant again.” Kita began and Akaashi felt watched, felt seen, felt exposed as he saw himself reflected in those wise eyes.

Kita looked on towards his rice field and continued, “And spring will come, whether or not you are prepared or whether or not you wish to languish in the cold. It will come, Akaashi-kun.”

—

“Your former captain is magical, isn’t he?” Akaashi asked, breaking the comfortable silence in the hours’ ride from Hyogo to Kobe.

Osamu guffawed, a laugh deep from his belly. “Ya got that right.”

He smiled back and the silence layers over them once again and Akaashi relishes at the sight of the mountains, the stillness, and the odd feeling of being born anew.

The truck had reached Kobe and the sight of vehicles and buildings brought a strange bittersweet feeling into Akaashi’s heart.

“When are you going back to Tokyo?” 

“Sunday morning.”

“You can stay over at my spare room, if ya want.”

“I wouldn’t be a bother?”

“Nah. Onigiri Miya’s reopening on Tuesday. Monday wer’ doin’ a test run to check if the pipes okay so I’m actually free. Quite unused to not doin’ anythin’.Don’t take this the wrong way, ‘Kaashi-kun, but ya kinda look like ya need taking care of right now.”

To be the recipient of the kindness of almost-strangers made something in his chest swirl with warmth and silently, he chose to accept this one small grace.

—

Osamu’s two-bedroom flat was a block away from Onigiri Miya. He technically shared the flat with Atsumu but as the other man stayed longer in the Jackals’ dorms, the bedroom had become a room to house visiting friends and guests.

Akaashi treated Osamu to an okonomiyaki place which the latter swore by for dinner and he was extemely grateful not to be in Tokyo at this moment. Not to be at a place where who he was was so entwined with the relationships he had with people, his job, and the routine he had carried with him for years.

It was nice, for however briefly, to be simply Akaashi Keiji.

His hair was still damp from his shower after their meal. But an image in his mind pursued his attention relentlessly and begged to be put into words, Akaashi complied to the growing idea in his head and wrote down in his notebook:

> _“In the space between fall and winter, in a room on the 3rd floor of a cheap apartment complex in the outskirts of Tokyo, someone unfolds.”_

_—_

Akaashi woke up to the smell of something wonderful being cooked.

“Good morning, Osamu-san. Can I help?”

“Mornin’. And nah, ‘m done.”

Breakfast was tamagoyaki, miso soup, and rice with fried salmon and a simple cabbage salad with cherry tomatoes.

It’s all a very simple breakfast that Akaashi had often as a child but the warmth of the meal spread from his belly to his limbs and extended to the tips of his fingers and he couldn’t help but sigh happily.

_“This is so good.”_

“It’s a normal Japanese breakfast, ‘Kaashi-kun.”

The words were dismissive but he could hear the smile in Osamu’s voice.

Osamu brought Akaashi to the Port of Kobe before bringing him to the Shin-Kobe station. There was really no time to look around and most shops and attractions were still closed in the late morning. The sight of Osaka bay and the tangy salty smell of the air refreshed Akaashi. He will come back later, he thought and see more of Kobe, savour the sights of Kansai, and relish them slowly.

“Thank you for driving me to Shin-Kobe, Osamu-san.”

“Yer too polite. Here ya go.” Osamu handed him a small paper bag. “Onigiri Miya special. Take care, ‘Kaashi.”

The warmth from this morning made its presence known again and he smiled gratefully and nodded. “See you later and thank you, Osamu-san.”

“See ya!”

—

The next three hours in the train was spent listlessly. Akaashi’s story was taking up space in his brain but he couldn’t find the words. Fiddling with the pen and struggling, he began to write the next lines and watch it take shape.

> _A box suspended in the sky, surrounded by concrete buildings and stale city air. His home felt like a prison some days._ _All Fuyuki ever wanted to do was dance. Fuyuki discarded his three-piece suit and cleared the center table from his living room._

> _A plie. Feet planted firmly on the ground. Bent knees. A deep breath. Arms at angle._
> 
> _A releve. To rise. Arms aloft._
> 
> _A saute. Starting from bent knees again with feet firmly on the ground, Fuyuki pushed off on both feet and extended his legs in the air briefly and softly lands in another plie._
> 
> _Something in the world righted itself as he landed on his feet. Nearly a decade and a half since he last danced —_
> 
> _But these basic moves of ballet were grounding him, providing a much needed a lifeline after weeks and weeks and weeks of fourteen-hour days in the office of an accounting firm._ _Fuyuki tries to recall the music his ballet teacher listened to when he was a child. Not Swan Lake, not Don Quixote… he was reaching for a memory, the name of the piece on the tip of his tongue…_

_—_

The rest of December passed by quietly. Akaashi somehow completed a rough draft of his story in the quiet lull of the approaching holidays. Tenma had coughed up one last chapter for the week before Christmas but the print run for the week before New Years were all holiday specials, giving the editors some breathing room to complete their tasks and enjoy the days. 

Christmas Eve was spent pleasantly with his parents. His mother hugged him, not asking about Bokuto’s whereabouts, which he was thankful for. Tomorrow, his elder sister would arrive for their traditional Christmas lunch. They will ask later, he thought, after letting him wind down with a glass of wine or two. 

“Mom, a friend gave me some _shinmai_ from Hyogo. I brought some.”

He deposited his bag in his room and as always, every year without fail, a wave of nostalgia crashes over him as he entered his old space. This room was for a younger Akaashi who studied and devoted much of his time to volleyball. Very much aware of the filled out notebook inside his bag,Akaashi considered the printer on the side with a deflated Mikasa on top of it and a very old desktop computer which got him through most of high school. Inside one of his cabinets was an old ream of letter-sized bond paper, the corners of which were slightly yellowed with age.

Akaashi gingerly considered his options and decided to boot up the desktop to retype his story. Akaashi was massively embarrassed as he read through his first draft. To think he felt good about it as he wrote! The lack of sophistication in his words and the messy structure of the story… despite the flaws, the editor in Akaashi saw something that could be sharpened into a story that could be considered good.

He hunkered down on his desk and proceeded to give more meat to his draft. Akaashi spent the afternoon typing, editing, and rewriting and was interrupted only by his mother calling him for dinner. 

“Bokuto-san and I are no longer together.” He declared to his parents to save them all from the embarrassment during dinner.

“Sorry to hear that, Keiji.” His father replied, forking a mouthful of pasta. 

His mother looked slightly disturbed by the news but decided not to comment. He wondered what she will say when she finds the words. 

Akaashi declined wine and opted instead for coffee with more of the fruit cake they had for dessert. He continued to type his story, giving it more form and rewriting most of the text and abandoning his notebook at some point. To see it completed had become a minor obsession, a challenge he couldn’t stop until completed. Sometime in the night he falls asleep on the computer desk, dreaming about words and how to string them together.

Akaashi spent Christmas day in a bit of a haze, going through the motions of eating with his family and exchanging gifts while his head remained in Fuyuki’s Tokyo and in Fuyuki’s story. Akaashi left his parents’ home on the morning of the 26th of December with 118 pages printed and a buzzing energy that cannot wait for the coming workday to end so he could sink his teeth into his words and edit. 

Akaashi was an editor before he was a writer, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! If you enjoyed this, please consider giving kudos or commenting! They make my day. <3
> 
> sidenote: Atsumu giving Kita designer goods is inspired by this tweet: https://twitter.com/preskita/status/1277118287013220352?s=20


	2. Winter Part One

Akaashi spent the commute to his office that morning responding belatedly to holiday greetings from his friends and acquaintances, particularly those from Kenma, Kuroo, Tsukishima, the Furokodani group chat, his University group chat, and to his surprise, Osamu Miya. 

“Merry Christmas from Onigiri Miya.” It said, with a picture of a giant onigiri the size of his face. 

“Merry Christmas! No holiday voucher?”

“Just c’mere and ya can eat for free! Valid until claimed.”

Akaashi grinned. 

He went to work in a lighthearted mood, which prompted his managing editor, Takenaouchi Mariko-san, to quip, “Had a good holiday, Akaashi-kun?”

“It was all right. Happy holidays, Mariko-san.”

“To you too! Don’t forget about the party this Saturday. Formal! That goes for everyone here.” Mariko-san made her voice louder to be heard, and grinned at the collective groans around the shounen manga editorial floor.

Akaashi swallowed his own groan back. He was looking forward to editing his work this weekend too. His one expensive suit which he last wore to a formal MSBY Jackals event as Bokuto’s plus one was probably needed to be aired out, if not cleaned again professionally — it had been more than six months.

As the norm for his line of work, the weekend came far too soon but there was no respite waiting for him. Today was the company party. Akaashi bore with the required niceties of the company. It was impolite and his mother would chew him out if she knew but he hid his printed out story in the huge inner pocket of his coat tonight and hid away in a small alcove near the balcony to edit his work.

Winter was settling in Tokyo and although it was not quite cold enough to snow yet, Akaashi enjoyed the biting wind and the stolen stillness amidst the racket of the party. The formal program was done and the stressed out editors and staff were having a good time drinking their weight in wine and beer. He knew Mariko-san would indulge, like last year, and tease her entire crew of editorial assistants and editor until they were drunk beyond belief. Akaashi would not make the same mistake as he did last year.

He probably looked like a harassed editor being forced to work during a party with the pitying glances thrown his way. He accepted it gladly, knowing no one would force him to stop. They were a publishing company. Everyone was terrified of deadlines and would respect someone working to beat them.

His print out had so many red lines at this point: crossed out words, paragraphs to be cut, jots of new sentences at the margins and at the back. Never quite knowing the burden of creating something, Akaashi surprised himself with how much he enjoyed the frankly thankless work of writing. Realistically, no one except him would read this but he trudged on anyway. Something satisfying was on its way to being born and he relished the mental and emotional exercise of writing the way he once relished the satisfying soreness after a volleyball practice gone well.

“Akaashi-kun!” Satoru-san with her reddened cheeks and tipsy smile, came assisting a drunk Mariko-san called. “Please help.”

“Akaaaaashiiiii-kun you didn’t driiiiiink!!” Mariko-san slurred, waving a bottle happily.

Sighing fondly at the sight of his drunk managing editor, he placed his papers on a nearby chair and placed his pen over it so it wouldn’t scatter. The party was beginning to wind down and now that Mariko-san was about to leave, he can also depart without causing offense. Satoru-san helped him carry Mariko-san on his back.

“Sorry for the bother, Akaashi-kun.” Satoru-san said as she rushed ahead to grab both of her and Mariko-san’s coats.

Akaashi, who once dreamt of becoming a literary editor in college, did not expect that his working life would come to carrying his drunk editor-in-chief during a party. He held back a smile. Somehow, it didn’t seem so bad to laugh at the ridiculous things that end up happening in your life. After wrangling Mariko-san on a taxi, he wished both of the ladies a good evening.

He decided to grab his coat now, seeing that there was no line at the counter before returning to the party hall to retrieve his novel.

It was gone.

The table had not yet been cleared by the staff but his papers were gone but the pen was on the floor. He wondered if someone grabbed them by mistake. Akaashi’s heart broke a little at the missing papers. He was only gone for a little over ten minutes. He spent the commute back to his empty apartment trying to convince himself that he could always print again and start anew.

— 

January begun before he knew it. There was no Bokuto to go to the temple with for the New Year’s visit so Akaashi was cooped up at home. He replied to all the Happy New Year messages but sent none of his own. He had printed his novel again but found neither the candour nor the energy to begin rewriting it. It was silly, but he truly grieved for his missing words.

There was little that he put 100% of himself in, preferring efficiency over hard work. _Writing was hard work._ There was nothing to it but sitting down and putting the words in, nothing you can be efficient about —no delegating the task you don’t like to someone else, no technology that can optimize the process. The precious free time he had the past few weeks was spent pouring over the story, writing, rewriting, crossing things out, adding them back in. He will start again. Perhaps not now, but soon.

Akaashi felt lethargic those first few days. He hated always New Years, his birthdays, even the sweetly-celebrated anniversaries with Bokuto. They reminded him of things he had not accomplished yet, how unfruitful the past year had been, how it seems as though he was wasting what limited time he had on earth. 

He forced himself to get up on the beginning of the work week, already dreading dealing with Udai, who was a slow starter and who would inevitably be struggling in the wake of his mini vacation. And of course, he was proven right when the moment he stepped in to the office, Satoru-san handed him over a fax. Annoyance rushed through his veins, pushing away his dreary thoughts from this morning.

The sudden spurt of inspiration from the man last month had all but evaporated and Udai had faxed over a note saying he is giving up this week. He takes a deep breath before plopping over to his desk and dialling Udai’s number. 

“Akaaaashi, I can’t, I can’t, my brain won’t work—" Udai said before Akaashi could even begin.

“Akaashi Keiji-san?”

A red-haired man with green eyes called out to their room. Akaashi wanted to strangle Udai and the beginnings of a headache was forming at the thought of another potential problem before he managed to fix this one. Akaashi raised his hand, motioning for the other man to wait. 

“Udai-san, I have to end this call but don’t make me go to your place this afternoon.” Akaashi dropped the call without waiting for Udai to respond. 

“Ah, hello, I’m Onodera Ritsu from the shoujo manga department. Isaka-san is calling for us.”

The room’s bustling abruptly stopped at the mention of the highly mercurial owner of their publishing house. Mariko-san raised an eyebrow and he shrugged as he passed. Akaashi wilted, disliking having the attention focused on him, as he left his desk to exchange greetings with Onodera-san. 

Onodera-san looked to be about his age, perhaps a few years older, and did not look like the type to handle shoujo manga at all but Akaashi didn’t want to presume. He blistered at the awkward interaction between them, dimly aware at the back of his mind that Onodera-san was as bad as he was at meeting new people.

Isaka-san was waiting for them in one of the smaller meeting rooms, usually used by editors dealing with new authors. He grinned when they both came in.

“Good morning, Onodera-kun, Akaashi-kun. Take a seat.”

Was this the transfer to the literature department Akaashi had been waiting for? He had been wanting it ever since he joined but now that the possibility was here… He found himself perplexed at the thought of not being able to accept. With a strong conviction that Akaashi didn’t know he had, he knew that Udai’s sports manga had to be finished before he moved departments. Was this what it felt like to be at the cusp of a dream and finding yourself saying, not yet, wait, not yet.

The three seconds of worrying was futile. Isaka called them in for something else.

“Usami-sensei found this at the hotel during the New Year party.” To his horror, Isaka waved a familiar sheaf of papers to their faces. “One of the pages had a note saying, ‘Akaashi Keiji, you dumb shit’.”

Akaashi groaned. Usami-sensei, as in Usami Akihiko the award-winning author, and Isaka-san, who’s known for his uncanny ability to spot bestsellers had likely read his draft. He pressed his palms to his face, wanting the floor to swallow him. He had to resign. He can take Udai pro-bono once he had a new boring office job so he would never have to face Isaka-san ever again.

“Akaashi-kun, who wrote this?”

Sitting up for politeness’ sake, Akaashi’s hands fidgeted as it always did when he was nervous. He could see Onodera-san eyeing him with a worried look from the corner of his eyes.

“I did, sir.”

Isaka-san hummed considering. “What’s your workload right now, Akaashi-kun?”

“A little light. Udai-sensei is being difficult but Tomoe-sensei is on hiatus.”

“When is Tomoe-sensei scheduled to return?”

“In four to six weeks, sir.”

“Finish this week with Udai-sensei and I’ll talk to Mariko-chan. You have one month to rewrite this. After that, you,” he pointed to Onodera-san. “will be his part-time editor. I’ll talk to Masamune-chan about winding down your workload in a month.”

“We’re publishing it?” Akaashi said, shocked. 

“Not as it is, no.” Isaka laughed. “It’s still a little baby draft, I’m sure you know that.”

“But there’s a gem in there. Lotsa polishing needed though, Akaashi-kun.”

“Ah, Isaka-san,” Onodera started, looking very much heartbroken. “I’m very, very grateful for the opportunity but the shoujo manga department is very, very busy—”

“I’ll make sure Masamune-chan will make it work. He can handle it and besides, there’s a month to prepare for the shoujo team!”

They glanced at each other, wincing at the potential disaster of an understaffed manga department. So many, many things could go wrong at Isaka’s whimsical declaration. He had only met Onodera-san but he already felt some kinship just thinking about how hectic the next few months would be. Isaka-san shoved the papers to Akaashi and waved goodbye.

“Why don’t you two get acquainted? Gotta go, I’m very busy, you know.”

Mariko-san once said Isaka-san had the force of a destructive typhoon. He thought it was an exaggeration but the other man had truly stormed through. Akaashi felt like he’d been blown away and had landed in an undiscovered country. Onodera-san glanced up at him and made an awkward gesture with his hands.

“Uhm, may I? Akaashi-sensei?”

“Akaashi-kun, please.” Akaashi replied, handing over the papers.

Akaashi’s heart was not ready for that title. _Akaashi-sensei._ A fever dream. He must be confined in some hospital room in the middle of Tokyo and delusional.

Onodera-san gingerly took the paper and began leafing through them. He stopped at a note stuck to one of the pages.

“Oh, Usami-sensei left a note.” Upon seeing Akaashi’s puzzled face, he added. “I used to edit for Usami-sensei so I recognise his handwriting.” 

_Isaka will publish this,_ it said.

A fever dream indeed, Akaashi thought.

 _“_ Akaashi-kun, can I take this home first? I know you’re not finished editing but I thought—”

Better take the sting off quickly and have Onodera-san read through it and proclaim that Usami-sensei and Isaka-san was wrong after all.

“Yes. I’ll be busy with Udai-sensei anyway.”

“We can meet on Sunday afternoon? I’ll give you my number.”

“Sounds good. Onodera-san please don’t expect a lot, I—“

“I’ll stop you right there, Akaashi-kun. Maybe it’s not ready for publication yet but Usami-sensei and Isaka-san saw something in your work. Isaka-san is a major annoyance but he’s very very talented at catching potential.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry about it, Akaashi-kun. You’re already doing well.” Onodera gave him a thumbs up. “Crippling self-doubt is a trait all authors have about halfway through the process.”

“Right, thanks.” Akaashi deadpanned. 

—

Sunday came and Akaashi offered his apartment as a place to talk. He didn’t think he could handle discussing his work in public, especially if Onodera, who had edited the award-winning Usami Akihiko of all people, gave him a verbal lashing. He tried to release his tension by attempting and failing to cook, and ended up ordering pizza and some dessert to serve later instead. Onodera would come in at three in the afternoon and it’s only about noon and Akaashi wanted to crawl out of his skin or vomit out of nervousness. 

He wants to be in Hyogo right now —to find calmness and a sense of self amidst his noisy and cluttered brain. He sees the last of the shinmai from the corner of his eyes and on a half-desperate, half-inspired whim, he messages Osamu. 

“Please, please tell me you deliver to Tokyo. Help.”

It went unanswered for a few minutes and to his surprise, he received a phone call that begins with Osamu’s laughter. 

“What?”

More laughter.

“I need to stress-eat right now, Osamu-san. You don’t understand.”

Osamu laughed again, sounding delighted at Akaashi's misery. There was noise in the background and he shouted something about taking a break. 

Oh no, he was working. It was lunchtime and Akaashi was bothering him with a stupid text message.

“Sorry to disturb you while working.”

“Nah, shop’s full and they’re all eating something now. What’s got ya stressed, Akaashi-kun?”

“Work.” 

Osamu hummed, considering his words. “Kita-san always says there’s no need to be nervous, just do as you’ve always done in practice.”

“I haven’t practiced. I don’t think it’s a thing that can be practiced.”

A beat of silence.

“Well, shit.”

Akaashi released a small huff of laughter at the response. 

“Well, Onigiri Miya might open in April or May in Tokyo so if you're stressed then, we got yer back.”

“Thank you, Osamu-san. I’m really sorry to disturb you—”

“It’s okay. You feel better now, don’t ya?” 

“I actually do. Thank you.” Akaashi replied with a smile. Indeed, his nerves were a little calmer.

—

Onodera-san did not give him a verbal lashing. Instead, he returned Akaashi’s original copy and presented him with a photocopied version with his own notes in green ink. He was kind and started off with generous praise before launching into the details of what was good and what he thought was not working.

Akaashi welcomed the honesty. At the back of his mind, he acknowledged how good of an editor Onodera-san was and wondered dimly why the other man was working in shoujo manga.Despite of their awkward start, Akaashi noted a sort of camaraderie forming between them and some banner in his mind was waving, “Look a new friend!”.

It was odd. Akaashi thought. Talking to Osamu-san and Onodera-san today and finding the stirrings of friendship forming. Akaashi did not have any close friends after Furokodani and it felt unnatural to him to slowly open up to others. Furokodani, Bokuto especially, barrelled in into his life and he had always felt blessed for having them in his life.

This slow unfurling was odd but not unwelcome.

“I think we need to work on the structure the most. The writing and the emotions are really already well-done.”

Akaashi nodded and said: “Thank you, Onodera-san. This is really good feedback.”

Onodera-san beamed at him in response, his face lighting up like a child.

“Can I call you in two weeks’ time, Akaashi-kun?” 

“Of course."

He escorted Onodera-san out of his house, only to open the door and see Bokuto. 

“Keiji?”

“Bokuto-san?”

“Oh! Sorry for intruding I’m Onodera Ritsu and I work with Akaashi-kun. I was just leaving.”

Bokuto’s eyes were hard and steely, lacking their usual warmth but he nevertheless bows and replies with, “I’m Bokuto Koutarou, Keiji’s friend.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

This was not happening. Keiji filed it in his head to apologize to Onodera-san later at Bokuto’s uncharacteristic rudeness before saying goodbye to Onodera-san, who to Akaashi’s consternation, replied with an upbeat “I’ll see you in two weeks, Akaashi-kun!”

Bokuto and him were no longer together. Yet, his heart had lodged itself in his throat like a trapped sparrow, beating wildly, and Akaashi could barely breathe. Some stupid part of him felt as thoughhe’s being accused of cheating when Bokuto asked with a puzzled frown, “Who was that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that Akaashi's back in Tokyo, things are slightly different. Let me know if you noticed the change in tone in this chapter. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated. 
> 
> Borrowed some characters from Sekaiichi Hatsukoi -I suddenly remembered it while writing and thought, oh, they'd fit well here.


	3. Winter Part Two

“Bokuto-san.” Akaashi breathed out. 

“Hey, Keiji.” Bokuto grinned, raising his left hand which had a paper bag. “I brought dinner. Thought we could talk?” 

“I just ate.” Akaashi replied much too quickly, reflecting the hammering in his heart.

Bokuto nodded, grinning wryly. He wanted to wipe that expression off Bokuto’s face.

Contrary to what most people thought because of his bubbly personality, Bokuto was insightful and could easily pick up social cues. He was no doubt thinking Akaashi was back to dating, and was serious enough with someone to bring them home.

“I didn’t think it would be so soon.” Bokuto said sadly.

Akaashi knew he was hurting and had distracted himself with Kobe, with his book, and with his job. Some idle part of his mind knew Bokuto was hurt by the breakup too but he did not pay attention enough. Then again, it wasn’t his job anymore to mind the older man but he still cared for Bokuto, still loved him as a friend, and still looked at the another man with immense fondness.

The truth sounded like an excuse: “He’s from work. We were working.”

“Keiji, you’ve never brought home an author before.”

“He’s,” Akaashi swallowed, because this is the first time he’s letting someone else know. Because saying it felt like giving it weight, making it real and Akaashi could barely understand how unreal the whole situation was. “He’s not an author. He’s my editor.”

“You can’t draw, Keiji.”

“No.” Akaashi laughed helplessly at the utter certainty in Bokuto’s voice and the genuine confusion on his face. “I can write though, apparently.” 

Bokuto beamed. “Whoa. That’s amazing. You’re amazing, Keiji!"

“We can get a drink outside? If you wanted to talk?”

Truth be told, Akaashi wasn’t ready to let Bokuto back in his apartment, to see him again inside and seamlessly integrate himself in the room, after barely having any contact in over a month. Akaashi could still see pieces of Bokuto in his flat, in the owl throw pillows Yukie-san gave as a housewarming gift, in the chipped mug Bokuto gave as a souvenir when he had a match in Sapporo, in the old sports manga Bokuto and Konoha used to trade back and forth in high school that somehow made it to his bookshelf years later. 

Bokuto’s smile fell but he acquiesced. “We can eat in our park?”

Our park. The park near Furokadani they often visited as teens. 

“Okay.” Akaashi said weakly. 

There was no handholding, of course. There was none of their casual touches but Bokuto’s chatter about Atsumu and Sakusa's bickering, and how Hinata had won eventually over the whole team, including the prickly Sakusa, was comforting. With a pang, he realised that he did miss Bokuto but there was also a certainty in his chest that he didn’t want to get back together.

Falling in love with Bokuto was sudden, instantaneous, Akaashi could pinpoint the very first moment. Falling out of love was a laborious, painful process that was already happening before you caught on. Akaashi thought about how he had never read a story about falling out of love.

Fuyuki’s story, which he tentatively called “Origami Stories”, at the behest of Onodera-san who begged for a working title, was a story about unfolding, of vulnerability, of trying again. Akaashi wrote much of his first draft to stay sane at his lowest points and to process his own reality.

> _"There, were Fuyuki’s form extended as much as his 32-year old salary man body could, he felt a little less folded, a little less of a lie…"_

Maybe he would write a story about falling out of love someday. He would describe how the hand that tightly held something you once cherished chafed with the effort of grasping on to something that slowly slipped away. He would write how one would not remember when it started, how it grew _—only remembering the tipping point when the metaphorical cup holding the things left unsaid and the ugly emotions finally broke—_ and nothing could go back to the way it once was. 

Bokuto got himself an iced latte and Akaashi a matcha and promptly went quiet when they reached the park. Akaashi didn’t know how to breach the conversation, how to reach out to this person who used to be part and parcel of who he was, with whom he used to be able to send sentences with the briefest of glances or a hint of a smile. 

Tokyo was too bright for stargazing but the night sky had a few speckles of light sparkling through and Akaashi remembered with a grin, how as a teenager he thought of Bokuto as a star. And now look, Bokuto had truly become one.

“Keiji,” Bokuto began, sitting down on one of the benches and patting the empty seat beside him. Akaashi sat, not knowing where to look, both dreading the conversation and yearning as well for the closure it would inevitably bring. “do you remember how I asked you to give me 120% back in high school?”

Akaashi nodded, heart thumping. How could he not? Bokuto pushed him, him who had his feet firmly planted in the ground, until he could fly and for a few moments, be part of the same constellations inhibited by extraordinary people like Bokuto.

“I’m sorry. I think ever since then, that’s all you’ve been giving and I’ve been taking it for granted. I want to do better. I miss you. I miss us.”

There was muted but hopeful smile on Bokuto’s face and oh, Akaashi loved this Bokuto as much as the exuberant, joyful Bokuto that most people knew. But he can’t. Akaashi was sure that as long as there were stars in the sky, some little part of his heart would always belong to his first love but at this moment, Akaashi wanted to try loving himself more. 

“I’m so sorry Bokuto-san but… I don’t want a relationship right now.” Akaashi drank from his cup, steeling himself out of his comfort zone to truly acknowledge his emotions. Bokuto had that effect on him still —to push beyond his boundaries and extend himself a little bit more.

120%. Bokuto deserved nothing but 120% of his honesty. 

“Please don’t take this the wrong way Bokuto-san but I’m enjoying myself at the moment. I’m no longer tied to a school, to a sport, or to anything.” 

_Not tied to you, went unsaid._

"I can switch jobs anytime. I can go anywhere if I choose to. And I love the freedom. I think for the longest time I didn’t realise that I was changing as a person. I’d like to get to know myself again, Bokuto-san. And I don’t think a relationship would be good for that.”

“Keiji, I—“ Bokuto paused and leaned back on the bench, palms pressed down on his eyes as he went silent for a few heartbeats. “You sound so sure.” 

Why was his heart aching even though Akaashi is the one doing the hurting?

Bokuto took a deep breath and slapped his cheeks with both hands. “All right. Let me walk you home?”

“Of course, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto was walking one pace ahead instead of falling into step beside him — a subtler sign of his downtrodden mood. Akaashi couldn’t help a bittersweet smile at the memory of a pouty younger Bokuto and his volatile moods. Grasping one Bokuto’s arms so he’ll stop, Akaashi said:

“This doesn’t mean I don’t want you in my life, Bokuto-san. If you’re okay with it, I’d still like to be friends.”

“Keiji, I’m trying not to cry here.”

Bokuto had always been an ugly crier, much like himself. Akaashi felt the tears on his cheeks too and he idly wondered how they looked like —two tall men in their early twenties crying like snotty-nosed little kids on a Sunday evening on one of Tokyo’s smaller parks.

Bokuto enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug and Akaashi tucked his face into Bokuto’s shoulders.

“Keiji, I also said before that it’s not about what’s easy right? But what’s the most fun. I’m sorry the last several months haven’t been fun for us—”

“No, Boku—”

Bokuto took Akaashi’s face into his hands and Akaashi could barely see him through his tears. “So I’m gonna cheer for you while you find what’s fun for you.” Pressing their foreheads together, Bokuto added, “Promise me you’re gonna have fun.”

Akaashi nodded aggressively through the tears and the heavy but warm thing growing in his chest because he was trying and he definitely would.

“I’ll always support you, even as a friend, Keiji.”

Squeezing the hands on his face, Akaashi said through the lump in his throat, “Me too, Bokuto-san, me too.”

— 

The last week with Udai before his month-long writing break does not go off without a hitch. He was ready to strangle Udai, except he still had to rush to the printers to get the damned manuscript published in time. He was putting on his shoes on the other man’s genkan when Udai finally asked.

“So, you’re off doing something else?”

“Yes.” Akaashi paused, thinking if he should tell Udai. And he really should. Udai had presented some of his more vulnerable sides as a creator to Akaashi, and he, of all people, should know. “I’ve been writing and they somehow want me to take it seriously enough to give me a break.”

Udai grinned. “Maybe you’ll be nicer to me after this month is over, Akaashi.”

“You should reserve fictional thoughts for your manga, Udai-san.”

Udai laughed. “At least, Takenouchi-san seems nice."

“Mariko-san is scarier than me.” Unable to resist the urge to tease the other man, Akaashi added, “Don’t cross her. Trust me.”

“Got that. Have fun writing, ‘Kaashi.”

Akaashi frowned a little, thinking about the long hours hunched over a laptop or pages, the struggle to find the right words, and the disappointment at finding out that they’re short of what you wanted them to be. He found the process fulfilling but he wouldn’t call it fun.

“Do you think writing is fun, Udai-san?”

“You don’t like it?” Udai asked. 

“Not all the time. I think I like having finished something more.”

Udai flopped on his couch and considered Akaashi with a level gaze. “That’s normal. It takes stamina to finish something.” Under his breath but still loud enough for Akaashi to hear, Udai added “…and some masochism to keep on doing it.”

Akaashi wanted to discuss more but the pressing schedule called for him to leave immediately. On an odd day when both he and Udai would be free, he’d treat the other man to coffee and learn more about creating and keeping on doing it as a living, as a way of life. Today, all he could say was a quick goodbye.

“Right. Thanks, Udai-san. Please remember I’m only a call away for any story-related issue. Mariko-san will be doing the panel editing but I’m happy to discuss any plot points.”

“Mm’kay. I’ll call you when that happens.”

When, not if. The certainty of it made Akaashi smile.

— 

The first day of his writing vacation was unbearable. The stress of getting Udai’s latest chapter out on time and the emotional drain that he had ignored after the heavy conversation with Bokuto hit him like a human-sized volleyball. Akaashi wanted nothing more than to lay under his blankets and ignore the world. He would indulge today, and only today and would wake up at lunch.

Akaashi woke up at three in the afternoon, hungry, a little frustrated at the wasted day but feeling more like himself after sleeping in.

Akaashi decided to establish a routine after his unproductive first day. Aided by several alarms on his phone to prompt him to wake up, jog, cook breakfast, write, nap, go out for lunch, write some more, have an early dinner, and write some more. The volleyball training from his earlier years cultivated a forgotten discipline that helped him follow the schedule and to his surprise, it worked.

For over a week, his schedule was blissful and he was making good progress. Until it didn’t. Ten days after starting his routine, Akaashi felt a strong itch to do anything but write or look at his words. He wanted to do anything but write or edit and he was struck with an urge for spring cleaning despite it being the middle of winter.

Because there was no one to keep tabs on him or to tell him otherwise, he scheduled the deep cleaning for tomorrow. He called Kenma, asking for company with a promise of a home-cooked lunch and an apple pie for dessert. It would be good to catch up with his closest friend. Kenma agreed, but only if he could vlog since tomorrow was a filming day for him.

After the incident where he was caught in Kenma’s vlog wearing only his eyeglasses and a pair of boxers for the internet’s viewing pleasure, Akaashi could care less about being filmed.

Kenma switched from vlogging and playing on his Switch while Akaashi cleaned. There was something heavy lingering in Kenma’s posture but Akaashi knew the other would tell him if anything was wrong.

They took a break in the late afternoon, with Akaashi preparing a quick pasta dish while an apple pie baked in the oven. Kenma could be picky with food but the other man would forgive any meal as long as an apple pie was to be had afterwards. 

“Keiji, I’m filming.”

Akaashi nodded. 

“My viewers have some questions after I tweeted about what’s happening today. So, Keiji, do you mind a Q&A while filming?”

“Go ahead.”

Kenma placed a tripod to Keiji’s small kitchen and sat on his small countertop so both of them were in frame before he began to read questions. 

“How long have you known each other? Oh, we met in high school.” Kenma paused and grinned at the next question. “What do you do? Are you a gamer too?”

“I’m a manga editor so no.” Keiji wondered if he could add writer to his job description now, despite not having published anything yet. 

Kenma snickered, affecting a slight teasing lilt to his tone. “I’m so sorry but your friend is so pretty ohmygod! Is he single? Sorry if that’s creepy!”

“I am.”

Kenma raised an eyebrow but continued. 

“Why are you doing spring cleaning in winter?”

“Just felt like I needed a change.”

Kenma hummed, his cat-like eyes, assessing. 

“Is the pasta done?” 

Keiji nodded. It was a small serving so he opted to immediately mix the pasta into the simmering sauce. He offered a forkful to Kenma who gingerly took it and cupped his other hand under the fork to prevent any spills. 

“Shit, Keiji. it’s so good.”

Keiji beamed. “I’ve been learning to cook and this is one of the quickest and easiest.”

Kenma looked a little thoughtful. “Maybe you can start a channel, Keiji. Like, easy delicious meals for the working man.”

Akaashi chuckled as he splits the dish into two servings. “I have no idea if you’re serious or sarcastic, Kenma.”

Kenma turns off the microphone so they could eat in peace but kept the camera running for his B-rolls. 

“Keiji,” Kenma began, twirling his fork around some pasta. “These are new plates." Kenma declared. Both he and Kenma operated on a similar thought process, always anticipating, always a few steps ahead. It sounded like a statement of fact but Akaashi understood the underlying question: is it truly over between you and Bokuto?

“Yes, I decided to change them.” Akaashi replied, knowing Kenma would understand. “I bought them last week.”

Kenma hummed, eating another forkful before he said,“I’m sad about it but I’m also happy for you.”

Keiji ended up with four boxes: one to the trash, one to donate, one to give to Yukie-san who loved shounen manga, and another one to mail to the Jackals’ dorms. Kenma quietly eyed the last box as he ate his second slice of apple pie. 

“Kenma, you can spit it out.”

“What no, it’s delicious.”

“Kenma, please.”

“You both had something good going, you know?”

“I know.” Akaashi considered for a moment, before adding, “I think if we spoke sooner, we could have fixed it.”

Kenma’s huge cat-like eyes assessed him but Kenma’s thoughts seemed far away. The other man was no doubt strategising something in his head, considering his next step before responding.

“Keiji, can I take some apple pie home with me?”

Akaashi blinked at the non sequitur. “Sure.”

Kenma nodded his thanks and added with a sad smile, “It’ll be nice to have some while I talk to Kuroo.”

— 

**Osamu-san**

19:43 

Where would you recommend to stay if I’ll be all over Tokyo?

19:47

All over Tokyo?

19:48

Ya. Scouting locations for Onigiri Miya’s Tokyo branch

19:48

!!!

19:49

Anywhere near the loop line would be good enough, Osamu-san. 

Unless you’re looking for a place not in the city centre?

19:52

Nothin’s sure yet but somewhere cheap but accessible would be nice.

I’ll be there for 3 days.

Akaashi considered his newly cleaned apartment, Osamu and Kita’s kindnesses last December, his goals of stretching himself. It would be good, he thought, to make and keep new friends.

20:21

You’re welcome to my couch, if you’d like. 

20:22

Really!! 

20:23

Thanks, ‘Kaashi! 

20:23

No problem, Osamu-san. 

20:24

I’ll cook ya dinner! 

20:25

I’d like that. Thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrestled with this chapter a bit (that scene with Bokuto was hard!) so it took so long. I originally thought this entire thing would be a nice, 10-12k words in four chapters but nooooo this fic decided it would be a longer. I hope to update every 1-2 weeks if work doesn't get in the way. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated. ❤️


	4. Almost (but not quite) Spring

Finishing the second draft of his novel felt like closing a chapter of his life. Akaashi was grateful and with a conviction that grew in him as he started the process, he had decided that he wanted to keep on doing this. He could not imagine a life lived without making stories, either as a manga editor or as a novelist. 

But this didn’t mean he was ready for his draft to be seen. Onodera-san, bless him, had a pleasant smile on his face as he held out his hand for the printed draft. Akaashi did not want to hand it over. Childishly, he did not let go as Onodera-san tugged the printed sheets out of his hand.

“Akaashi-kun,” Onodera-san sighed with a patient, if a little indulgent smile that made Akaashi feel like he was five again and was found to be mildly misbehaving, “it doesn’t have to be of publishing quality yet.”

Onodera-san motioned for them to take a seat and Akaashi followed, letting go of the bundle of paper. Akaashi had always thought that Marukawa’s culture of printed drafts was wasteful but after having created his own novel and his short stint revising it, he understood why it was the norm.

Onodera-san took out a paper from his bag and began to jot down as he spoke:

“I’ll be editing your work for the next two to three weeks. After that, you’ll have time to rework it again, depending on our deadline which we’ll have to confirm with Isaka-san. Then, we’ll have an initial 3 to 4 advance readers, including myself again and we’ll also look into book covers around this time. You’ll have another chance to edit it again.”

Onodera-san smiled at him, handing over the schedule he wrote down. “There’s plenty of time. It can take up anywhere from six months to two years for a completed first draft that’s been accepted for publication to be actually on the shelves.”

Two years was a little unfathomable for Akaashi who’d been in the industry for only a little over a year and had been published a manga chapter on a weekly basis ever since. The knowledge both relieved him and made him itch for time to go faster, for Akaashi not to experience this anxious but hopeful desire for something he created to go out to the world, be seen, and hopefully be enjoyed.

“Oh, that’s… a relief.” Akaashi responded tentatively.

“Right? It doesn’t have to perfect! Thisdraft would only be seen by me so don’t worry too much okay?”

“Thank you, Onodera-san.”

“Also, before I forget,” Onodera-san reached inside his bag and passed an envelope to Akaashi. “here’s your advance check. I had to argue for your royalty rates. The acquisition team didn’t want to budge on the advance but I managed to get you a higher royalty percentage.”

Everything Onodera-san said seemed to be a little muffled after and Akaashi, who’d always thought of money as someone worked for, couldn’t comprehend that he was getting paid for something he enjoyed creating.

“Um, Onodera-san shouldn’t you be getting a cut?”

“I’m not your agent!” Onodera-san laughed. “Marukawa is paying me.” 

“But, you’re kind of also my agent if you argued for my rates?”

Onodera-san looked flustered and glanced at the novel. “I’m…we have to check with Isaka-san. Isaka-san just accepted this so…”

“I’d feel like I’m taking advantage if you don’t get anything.”

“Right, of course. I’ll talk to Isaka-san first, okay?”

Akaashi nodded. “Please do.”

“The details of the advance and payout is also inside. So, the amount here is the first of four payments, so you’ll be getting three more checks as we progress with the publication process—”

Akaashi took a quick, polite glance at what’s inside.

250,000 yen.

“Um, Onodera-san, you said there were three more checks?”

“Right. It’s not a lot of money now since it’s your first book. But your royalty rate is much better than most authors.” Onodera-san raised his fist, “We just have to make sure to sell a lot!”

He was getting a million yen for his book as an advance.

What.

Akaashi, at the back of his head, knew that this was not a wage that he could comfortably live on because living in Tokyo was extortionate. The amount barely covered his rent and other fixed costs for a month.

Still, something was being redefined at this moment on this ordinary afternoon in the middle of Tokyo in February —when winter had nestled in the city and covered it with its chilly sighs. This moment seemed like a directionary light in a video game, that if Akaashi followed through, he would be gifted with some knowledge or some permission to move forward towards the next level. For Akaashi, work had always meant an office and a salaried job but the check in his hand, an ordinary check —not even that much money— was opening a new path in front of him.

He didn’t think he could verbalize it at this moment, didn’t think Onodera-san would understand if he tried to tell him. Maybe Kenma, for all his eccentric forms of making the kind of money he had now, would understand.

Tucking in the discovery into his chest where it sparked a hopeful little light and cradling it like a precious thing, Akaashi said instead with a smile, “Thanks for all your help, Onodera-san.”

—

Osamu-san arrived towards the end of February, a week after he handed over his novel and had his little moment of illumination. Akaashi picked him up from Tokyo station and demonstrated the way to his flat. It was just one train ride to Yoyogi station and about half an hour’s walk away. The rent anywhere closer was diabolically priced and nowhere near Akaashi could afford on an editor’s salary.

“Wow, you’re actually a _city_ boy, aren’t ya?” Osamu commented as they walked. “I can’t believe yer one station away from both Shinjuku and Harajuku.”

Akaashi, having lived in Tokyo all his life, did not understand the fascination and merely hummed in reply. It reminded him a little of the Karasuno boys on their first participation in the training camp, which warmed him a bit and distracted him from the awkwardness brewing between him and Osamu-san.

How could he even breach this awkward, almost tangible space between them? In Himeji, Osamu-san reached out and grabbed Akaashi until he was in a farm in Hyogo and was fed and taken care of in Kobe, so much so that Akaashi felt himself unclench and open up to the world like he had not done in months.

Could he do the same for Osamu-san? Tokyo did not exude wonder like Hyogo did. It was all grays to Hyogo’s greens, but he wished still to repay Osamu-san’s kindnesses. He did not think his life as an author would’ve begun if it weren’t for the time he spend with Kita-san and Osamu-san.

The walk went slow as Osamu-san took his time casually taking the scenery in but they eventually arrived at his very modest flat.

“It’s not much, but this is my home.” Akaashi announced, opening the door and turning on the lights. “Please make yourself at home.”

“Sorry for the intrusion!” Osamu replied politely as he followed after Akaashi to the small entryway.

“Oh.” Akaashi said as Osamu bent down to remove his shoes on the genkan. 

“Yes?”

“You have a lot of hair.”

“What.”

The polite smile on Osamu-san’s face disappeared and he looked adorably confused. Akaashi, being the youngest had his fair share of pranks from his elder sister as a child. She thankfully grew out of them, although she still teased Akaashi from time to time. Miya Atsumu clearly did not have the same inclination.

“Bokuto-san mentioned once,” Akaashi didn’t flinch at the name, his heart didn’t stutter. "that you always wore an Onigiri Miya cap to hide your um, early balding.” Twiddling his thumbs, he added. “According to Atsumu-san, apparently.”

“I’m gonna kill him.”

Akaashi couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his throat.

—

It was 8:51 in the evening and Akaashi was still staring down as Tenma revised his work. He had a guest at his house who he was supposed to tour a little around Tokyo and have dinner with, now abandoned.

Murder, Akaashi reasoned, could be justified at this point. 

“Akaashi, I can’t. I can’t.” Tenma whined, the last sentence turning into a nearly incoherent wail.

“You can’t what.” Akaashi replied flatly. 

“The bodies, it’s all wrong. That’s not how I want the spike to look. It’s, uh.” Tenma held his head in his arms. “Maybe I should go on a hiatus to get more references—“

“No.”

“Akaashi—“

Akaashi had several friends who played volleyball being a setter himself. Some of them were in high places and when things get rough, he would not hesitate to call upon them. 

“You need a spiker? I’ll get you a spiker.”

“A blocker too, Akaashi, if you could.”

Akaashi glared. Tenma, at least had the decency to look ashamed.

“Take a nap. Be ready whenever I call you.”

Tenma raised a hand in a salute and answered with a “sir, yes, sir!”. Akaashi sighed. He had phone calls to make and favours to call in.

This was how Akaashi ended up at an indoor volleyball court at nearly midnight with Kenma, Osamu-san, Tenma, as the lights turned on brightly and Kuroo-san approached him with an anxiety-inducing grin. 

“You owe me one.”

“Yes.” Akaashi felt like he was dealing with the devil himself as he shook hands with Kuroo whose smile had turned almost sinister. What is he planning as a favor to call, Akaashi began to wonder but decided not to pursue the line of thought for his own sanity. Kenma rolled his eyes at the dramatics of it all.

Akaashi approached Osamu-san who was stretching in a corner. “I’m so sorry to involve you in this.”

“Nah, it’s interesting. You still play?”

Akaashi shrugged. “I sometimes get dragged by my senpais but not full matches, no. You?”

“I’m an uncle at the friendly neighbourhood association volleyball club.”

Akaashi laughed. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Kenma eyeing them as the shorter man set up two cameras.

“Okay, I’m ready.” Kenma declared.

“You’re playing, Kenma?” Kuroo asked, surprised.

“Ready to film.” Kenma quickly clarified.

“Aww, Kenma, come on. Just one for old times’ sake.” Kenma was doing the pouty thing with his cheeks that made him look much younger.

Akaashi observed the two quietly, mindful of his last conversation with Kenma, and wondered who would give in first. 

“Okay.”

There was an ease to their banter and Kenma gave in far too quickly for it to be normal.He wondered if this was Kenma adjusting, if they had talked about whatever it was that bothered Kenma the last time they met, and this conversation was a result of that.

Akaashi, of course, got roped into setting as Tenma took photos of Osamu spiking Akaashi’s sets and Kuroo blocking them. A slide hit. An A-quick. A time difference attack. Syncing with Osamu-san, despite it being on Tenma’s direction and not a game, was incredibly easy. Clearly, his time at the neighborhood association let him keep most of his skills as a spiker into adulthood. It made Akaashi consider casuallywant to play for a team too, despite knowing it was impossible with his work schedule.

“Tenma-san, you should spike too. To get that feeling.” Akaashi said, looking over at Tenma who was wearing jeans and a hoodie, but had volleyball shoes on. “Kenma will take the photo references for you. Osamu-san and Kuroo-san will block.”

Akaashi eyed Kuroo, saying, don’t let him get a shot in until I signal you. Kuroo’s menacing grin indicated that he understood. Tenma had been frustrated with drawing the protagonist getting a clean shot against a team with good blockers for his current chapter. Akaashi would not deny that he wanted to see his mangaka struggle on the court but this would definitely help Tenma in creating the manga’s current arc.

— 

“Thank you for the help, Osamu-san.”

“I had fun. And I have a signed copy of Meteo Attack. Don’t worry about it, “Kaashi-kun.”

“I’m kinda hungry. Let’s drop by a konbini for a snack? Or is that too plebeian for your taste buds?”

“Whatcha talkin’ about? Onigiri Miya is plebeian. Come on.”

Akaashi laughed. Tokyo was still bright but a little quiet now and he felt alive after playing a little volleyball. He missed it.Admittedly, he enjoyed the little chaos Tenma caused tonight, not that he’ll ever let the other man know.

“Don’t get an onigiri. I’ll make some tomorrow.”

“Oya? I won’t say no.”

“Ya.” Osamu-san leaned into the fridge door he just closed after grabbing apple juice. “By the way, I don’t know what ya Tokyo folks do but I have to check out something before 7am tomorrow. Should I just leave the door unlocked?”

“That’s pretty early. Sorry for disturbing your schedule.”

“Gonna check out a potential supplier. And it’s fine, I can take a nap after.”

Akaashi grabbed a yogurt drink and a melon pan. “I’ll give you a spare key. We might miss each other. I have to go to Tenma-san early tomorrow as well to get to the printers in time.”

Akaashi grabbed the apple juice and asked, “Are you not getting anything to eat?”

Osamu examined the pork buns and took one, reaching for his apple juice. “I’ll pay for mine.”

Akaashi dodged and grabbed the bun instead, walking away before the other could protest. “This is my thanks for helping Tenma-san out and my apology for missing dinner.”

He heard Osamu sigh but he did not look back.

Exiting the store and walking along the still-lit but kind of empty streets, Akaashi asked,“Why did you not continue volleyball?”

“Why didja not continue volleyball?”

Akaashi blinked, not expecting the question to be returned. He thought it was clear from his high school career that he didn’t have the skills for it, unlike Osamu-san who could’ve gone pro if he wanted. There was a muted playfulness in Osamu-san’s eyes and something else he could not make out yet.

“I didn’t think I had the talent for it. And there were other things I was interested in doing.” Akaashi crumpled the packaging of the melon pan, thinking of how inadequate he was a setter in high school to the likes of Kageyama and Atsumu-san.

“Yer doin’ it again.”

“Doing what again?”

“The thing Kita-san scolded ya about. Sellin’ yerself short. I dunno much about Fukurodani but I heard about their setter being vice captain when he was only second year and how he could easily commandeer one of the top aces in the country.”

Akaashi took a deep breath. “I still don’t think I’ll make it in the leagues though.”

“Ya won’t. I won’t. We’re not hungry for it.” Osamu-san bit into his pork bun, as if for emphasis. “The lot of them, all hungry monsters.”

There was a pointed pause before Osamu-san continued, “I didn’t want that life. One injury and it’s over. Ten, fifteen years later —I wouldn’t know what to do with myself once the body says it’s done. ‘Tsumu doesn’t understand it, ya know? I don’t think any of them do.”

Bokuto-san, even Hinata-kun, their drive, their tunnel vision on winning and enjoying the next match. Akaashi never really deeply thought about his professional friends’ motivations but presented with Osamu-san’s argument, he can’t help but think he’s right. Tsukishima-kun, who had the smarts and the physicality to make it to Division 1, was in Division 2 not because he wasn’t capable, but because he wasn’t willing to let go of his schooling and his job at the museum to get there: he was not hungry enough.

“Or even if they do, even if it’s nagging at the back of their minds, they do it anyway.”

Osamu-san smiled at his reply, looking like he was about to respond before changing tack.

“Is that the Skytree?”

Akaashi looked up. It was indeed the Skytree from a distance.

“Yeah.”

Osamu-san pulled out his phone and took a picture.

“Do you want me to take a photo of you?” Akaashi asked.

“Yes, I’ll send it to ‘Tsumu and remind him of my hairy head.”

Akaashi handed back Osamu-san’s phone when the other man asked, “Do you want a picture too?”

The Skytree had already blended into the background of Akaashi’s mind at this point, and he looked up at its familiar form again, about to decline but, heck, why not. “All right.”

“Okay, stand where I’m standing right now.” Akaashi followed. “How about a little smile? Yer lookin’ like a teenager forced by yer mom.”

Akaashi laughed and he heard the camera’s shutter and saw the flash of the phone behind his crinkly eyes.

“I’ll send it to ya later.”

“Okay.” Akaashi said as Osamu-san showed him the photo.

Tokyo looked brighter in the small screen. There were reds and oranges and some blues, not just the grays of the buildings —a certain vibrancy Akaashi had been so used to the point he couldn’t recognize it anymore. Akaashi didn’t think one’s perception of the same street, the same stoplight, and the same sky could widen and change so significantly, just by experiencing them with someone else.

Tokyo had been Akaashi’s home for more than two decades and he thought he’d seen it all but a simple pause, a second look brought about by Osamu-san’s presence gave everything familiar a kind of freshness. Akaashi had never really been outside at 2:00 in the morning when Tokyo’s air felt crisp and fresh. It was winter but something inside Akaashi felt like it was about to bloom and unfold with a huge, unrecognizable warmth.

What was it that Kita-san once said? Ah, winter was a promise. Osamu-san pulled him by the arm playfully as he spotted an onigiri _gachapon_ machine in front of one store.Akaashi ignored the nagging thought in his head that said, look, this man right here could be a promise too.

Later that day, still in the wee hours of the morning and the sun had yet to fully rise, Akaashi woke up to the smell of something wonderful and the sight of Osamu-san’s sleeves rolled up and his arm muscles visible, and all Akaashi could think of was, _delicious_. 

It was strange, Akaashi mused, to feel attracted to someone who was not Bokuto-san. It had been Bokuto-san for over half a decade and Akaashi was the type to appreciate the aesthetics of someone but not feel attracted until he could get to know them. But Osamu-san was pleasing to the eyes, had a kind but witty disposition, and Akaashi half-hates the man for taking care of him so well even though they barely knew each other.

Despite their limited encounters, Akaashi felt some preciousness brewing between them, a friendship of sorts. But his new awareness of the other man’s attractiveness opened up the possibility of something more. Akaashi didn’t think he’s ready for that now. Osamu-san lived in Kobe too, and he didn’t want the pain, the yearning, and the effort that went into a long distance relationship that would only deteriorate in the long run because Akaashi wanted something else, something more tangible in a relationship. 

“A yen for your thoughts, ‘Kaashi?”

“Good morning, Osamu-san. Just tired and very sleepy.” Akaashi replied, dodging the question.

He was overthinking again. Place an attractive man in front of him and he’s already thinking of a relationship, Akaashi chided himself. For all he knew, Osamu-san was straight. “It smells good, Osamu-san. You didn’t have to cook.”

“It’s nothing. I wanted to try the ingredients I bought yesterday from potential suppliers if they're good quality but I wouldn’t be able to do that if I stayed at a hotel. So yer doing me another favour, actually.”

“Ah, that’s good to know.”

—

Playing house with Osamu-san for three days intensified the yearning for some form of domestic bliss that Akaashi had been wanting since before the break-up. He wondered if the universe was toying with him, giving him a taste of something he truly enjoyed but could never achieve on his own.

Osamu-san grinned as he said goodbye, nonchalantly placing an Onigiri Miya cap on Akaashi’s head, brushing away the awry curls that had been displaced to the front of his face. “Courtesy of Onigiri Miya.” 

“Ah, thanks.” Akaashi blushed. “You didn’t have to.”

“It’s just a cap. Here’s a shirt too. I hope it’s the right size.”

“Thank you, Osamu-san. My couch is open if you ever have to come back.”

Osamu-san paused and Akaashi wondered if he phrased it wrongly, if it sounded like an unwelcome proposition. God, Akaashi didn’t know how to make new friends. What now, he wanted to call Kenma or Yukie-san and ask—

“I’d be grateful and happy to. Yer too kind, ‘Kaashi-kun.”

“Sorry I can’t bring you to the station.”

“Don’t worry about it. Eat well for me. Bye-bye.”

“Bye, Osamu-san.”

Osamu-san was gone now but Akaashi had about a week’s worth of leftover food and he didn’t want to think about how he’ll be reminded of Osamu-san now whenever he opened his fridge, or how he’ll be missing Osamu-san’s onigiri when he buys some in a konbini.

There were new things in his apartment now, a cap, a shirt, tatami rollers that Osamu-san bought because he forgot his in Kobe, and an onigiri gachapon toy of all things.

For now, Akaashi refused to pay attention yet to the new things happening inside of him: new memories, new feelings…the joyful anxiety of someone experiencing something akin to a crush.

He would not think about it yet. The complicated things could wait. Right now, he was happy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SO SO sorry it took longer than expected! I had a few hiccups with work and I was tempted to partially do this chapter in Osamu’s perspective which meant a lot of dilly dallying. It didn’t work out though so maybe I’ll post a separate Osamu POV chapter instead.


	5. Interlude: Snippets from Fall to Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short snippets from Osamu's point of view

**i.**

“Myaa-Saam?”

Osamu looked up and grinned. “Akaashi-kun, yes? Osamu if ya wou’d.”

Akaashi Keiji sat next to him. Messy curls and sharp eyes —Osamu had always been weak to quiet, beautiful men. He’d pegged Akaashi as his type ever since the Adlers-Jackals match but a firm, no no-nonsense statement from Atsumu saying that he was soulmates or some other romantic exaggeration with Bokuto Koutarou made Osamu disregard the budding thoughts. 

Osamu quickly disregarded the thoughts again. Akaashi had a pinched expression on his face and he looked a little lost and looking like he needed a friend. He wondered if it was a work problem or a relationship problem. Atsumu, who was a closet rumormonger, hadn’t babbled anything. The melancholy look suited the other man, Osamu thought.

Osamu might’ve had this face on some time ago, after graduation, before he had decided what he was going to do. Those eight months of his life where he could’ve gone anywhere but remained stuck with how aimless he was. If he had someone who, even for one afternoon take the nagging emptiness away, he would’ve been forever grateful. Contemplating, he asked if Akaashi was free.

Osamu loved showing off his hometown. He couldn’t help the small smile as Akaashi began to relax on the drive to Kita-san’s place, looking out at the all-too familiar landscape like it was something magical.

“Ya look like ya have stars in yer eyes.”

**ii.**

_“This is so good.”_

“It’s a normal Japanese breakfast, ‘Kaashi-kun.”

Feeding people was one of Osamu’s joys and seeing one of his meals savoured so carefully and with so much earnestness made his chest grow warm. If he had a tail, it might be wagging at the sight of Akaashi heartily digging into the simple dish he prepared that morning.

He wondered how Akaashi would react if he knew what he looked like right now. The serious-looking man was doing a cute little dance with his shoulders as he ate. He would not mention it, lest Akaashi stopped and became more conscious of how he eats. The little dance was a sight Osamu would not mind seeing often. 

**iii.**

_You’re welcome to my couch, if you’d like._

Osamu picked up a flower from the display at Onigiri Miya’s counter after cleaning and closing the shop. Gingerly, he picked at the petals, whispering to it the burgeoning beginnings of desire that he had refused to acknowledge since autumn: it’s an _invitation,_ it’s not an _invitation…_

_It’s not._

**iv.**

Osamu was a goner.

Akaashi laughed against the background of the Skytree, with the lights surrounding him like a halo that absolutely made the other man glow in the darkness of Tokyo. It was 2AM and it was cold but he felt a hammering in his chest, warm like the _irori —_ the fireplace— in his grandparent’s traditional house. In his memories, his grandfather was always cooking something on the _irori,_ the smell of good food and the warmth of the fire chasing away any lingering chills _._ The scent and the warmth of childhood washed over Osamu in this random street in Tokyo, a place he’d visited only handful of times, at the sight of that smile.

He glanced around for a distraction, a way out, something to stop himself from making a fool of himself in front of a beautiful boy in this big city.

Barely containing a sigh of relief, he took Akaashi’s arm and pulled him to an onigiri _gachapon_ machine. Praise the gods for their mercy.

He’d been nursing a crush for a while and today, he could no continue to pretend it didn’t exist, no longer fool himself into thinking he was just seeking Akaashi’s friendship. 

Ah, what an utter fool he was. Atsumu would deck him on the head if he found out.

Atsumu was not going to find out. 

**v.**

Osamu would not lie and say that an Akaashi in Onigiri Miya merchandise did not make his heart beat a little faster. He was adorable, those messy curls again and his flushed cheeks. Osamu was terrified at the suddenness of his desire to take this as far as he wants, to press his lips and discover for himself how Akaashi tasted, how he’d respond to his hands.Osamu wanted to run his hands along Akaashi’s hair, the elegant slope of his neck, to know what sounds Akaashi would make if he touched certain places, wanted to discover the planes and dips of Akaashi’s body.

Worse, he wanted to learn about Akaashi’s hopes and fears. Akaashi mentioned working on a novel separate from his work as a manga editor. He wanted to be there on the late nights and the early mornings, wanted to learn about his past, wanted to see which parts of him had been scarred by his time as volleyball player (Osamu had not yet met an unmarred person who played at the national level) and learn the stupid or profound stories about them. 

He wanted to know which parts would make Akaashi whimper, which parts would make him moan, wanted to discover how he’d look if Osamu would just — 

— it was time to back off. 

Akaashi had not mentioned Bokuto at all during his stay. Osamu did not overhear any phone calls. That didn’t mean anything though.

With hands tingling at the memory of Akaashi’s cheeks and his belly pooling with warmth at the urgency of his desire to touch, to know, to taste, Osamu said, “Eat well for me. Bye-bye.”

**_Midsummer_ **

**vi.**

His family and friends assumed that his restlessness in the last weeks was because of the delay of the Tokyo branch. Osamu wished it were that simple. It was getting ridiculous really, this pining. A week ago Akaashi sent him and Kita-san an advance copy of his novel. Osamu, who had only read cook books and manga after high school, devoured the slim volume on his day off. He didn’t think he could like the other man more. He was physically attracted to Akaashi, no question about that, but the desire to learn how the other man thinks and how he feels about the little things in life, was growing at alarming late in his heart.

He thanked Akaashi again for the book, saying he loved it. The other man replied with polite pleasantries, as he tended to, before mentioning that he’ll be in Osaka for work in two weeks. Osamu took that as a sign from the universe. He would confess, regardless of the response.

Osamu

17:12

If you have free time, please come and do a taste test for me.

He asked, desperate, already wanting to spit out the words so he can get over these feelings. Because he had nursed a crush for Suna Rintarou for three years and it grew into something gigantic because it went unsaid and unchecked —only for Suna to reject him for his volleyball career. Suna asked him if he could wait. Osamu replied with a weak punch and a fuck you before keeling over with part heartache, part grief, and part relief at having finally let the words out. Osamu would not make the same mistake this time.

Akaashi

17:14

I would love to. Sunday noon?

He might have fallen for another beautiful, unavailable man but he’d rip the bandaid out of this as fast as he could. Osamu could re-establish boundaries, remain as a friend. He’d be okay with that. But he couldn’t keep wondering, yearning.

And so, Osamu anticipated and dreaded that said Sunday, practicing the Tokyo-exclusive recipes he’d created and letting his staff bring home the excessive amount of onigiri he’d made. All the while hoping to see Akaashi smile and do that little dance with shoulders again as he ate Osamu’s food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! This fic is NOT dead, despite the long time between the updates. Thank you for reading! I'll try to get the next chapter up soon.


	6. Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found out that it was Akaashi's birthday today and cranked this one out. Apologies for any mistakes!

The days passed, slow as they are, but the weeks pile on fast and months go by without Akaashi noticing the passing of time. The cherry blossoms in Yoyogi Park had already bloomed and Akaashi only noticed when he dropped a coin while walking home and was stunned by the splash of color that met his eyes when he looked up.

He had made revisions to his novel and it was now with a few readers. Ogino-san, an editor for an author who won the Akutagawa, obliterated his piece. It made Akaashi want to renege on his contract and squirrel away the text to some drawer in his room and bolt it in, never letting it see the light of day again. A tiny part of Akaashi, however, knew that Ogino-san’s points were raised by Onodera-san and a few others too —they were just much nicer with the delivery.

Onodera-san had also raised a few options for the cover: a tasteful minimalist design with just an origami crane in one corner, a line art of a man holding a plié, and finally, a colored illustration of a salaryman in a jete.

He knew Onodera-san preferred the illustration the most, but none of them truly resonated with Akaashi. Onodera-san said that there's still time to ask for changes in the designs but it still made him a little nervous. The anticipation of his novel being “born” had Akaashi fretting with nerves and excitement. If it all went well, Onodera-san said it would be released by late autumn, which was according to the editor, an astronomically fast pace for a novel. Akaashi who published a manga chapter once a week thought it dragged on too long. 

Between his novel, Tenma-san’s panic at having his manga noticed by the Volleyball Association after Kuroo had called his favor in, and Tomoe-sensei’s closing her manga arc before moving to Osaka and being transferred to a Kansai-based editor, Akaashi really was barely able to breathe. 

All his workload had been amplified by Isaka-san and his managing editor talking to him earlier that afternoon. They had offered that after Tomoe-sensei’s transfer, he reduced his working hours to a part-timer officially and handle only Tenma so he could have more time to write and work on his book.

He was partly taken aback at the offer and made apologies if the quality of his work dropped but Isaka-san waved him off and just mentioned how he’d like to see more of his work as a writer. He didn’t think he’d ever admit it but that made Akaashi flush with pleasure and a little bit of pride. 

But now here he was — at home, sipping a cup of instant matcha latte and accepting that he was roughly two hours away from crawling out of his skin with anxiety.

He hated making choices. The offer was wonderful and if finances were not an issue, he would have accepted it in a heartbeat. The reduced hours would mean he can pay rent and his utilities, but he’d have to scrimp on food and everything else. He should talk to his parents, talk to Kenma, talk maybe with Tsukishima-kun who might have a similar set-up with his job at the museum and the Sendai Frogs. 

Some part of him wanted to talk to Bokuto too, even though he already knew what the other man would say. Bokuto-san would tell him to do it, to accept the offer because things would work out eventually, that he believed in Akaashi.

It was unfair of him, to suddenly remember his ex when his self-esteem was running low and he felt pressed into a corner. He had occasionally used Bokuto-san’s unwavering belief to prop his lack of confidence but needing it now after the breakup and at a time when he thought he was finally able to be his own person felt like a slap to the face. 

Akaashi finished his cup and tucked his tumultuous emotions away. Those can wait —he had manga panels to edit tonight and a few calls to make. Bokuto-san used to say to him that bad days were just 24 hours and that tomorrow would be better. It’s one of his little mantras now. Akaashi took a deep breath and repeated the phrase. 

—

It did not get better. 

Akaashi needed a breather. The past two days had been testing him, his temper short and his anxiety skyrocketing. He could feel the tears threatening to fall. He laughed to himself a little hysterically. On his first nationals, he cried like this on the bench. Half a decade later, he’s crying again —only this time, on a cubicle in a toilet on the 7th floor of a building in Tokyo. 

His phone rang. Mariko-san did say she would call. Steadying himself with a deep breath, he sneezed on a tissue before he answering. 

“Yes, Mariko-san?”

“Uh, it’s Osamu? Sorry are you busy?”

“A little, yeah.”

“Bad day?”

Akaashi couldn’t stop the crack in his voice. “Bad week.”

“You’re at Marukawa?”

“Yes. Osamu-san. Sorry to cut you short but if you can leave a message, I promise I’ll get back to you later.”

Later might be two or three days but oh well, Akaashi doesn’t have the luxury of time right now to feel completely apologetic about it.

“Of course, don’t worry about it. Take care of yourself, okay?”

An erratic beat of his heart, the little traitor. Akaashi’s calm facade and his efficiency meant he was rarely told to take care of himself. People assumed he did, but in truth, Akaashi was often at his wit’s end, depending on his production schedule.

With a smile that Akaashi hoped could be heard through his voice, he replied:

“Of course, thank you, Osamu-san.”

—

“Akaashi-kun,” Mariko-san called out once Akaashi returned to his desk. “Could you stay in Osaka for a few days to get Tomoe-sensei settled in with her new editor?”

“Ah, I wish I could but Tenma-san’s chapter…” Akaashi wrinkled his nose at annoyance. “He’s been restless with collaboration with the Volleyball Association. I don’t think I can leave him alone this week."

“If you can get him to finalize the storyboard, I’ll make sure to reign him in.”

“It’s not ideal but I’ll talk to him.”

“Thanks, Akaashi-kun.” Mariko-san replied. Glancing up from her laptop, she added, “Have you decided?”

Akaashi wanted to scream internally and remind Mariko-san there’s not much space left for thinking in his brain the past week, much less deciding on important life choices. 

“Is it okay to decide after Tomoe-sensei’s move?”

“Of course.” Mariko-san looked at him intently. Akaashi wondered if the bags in his eyes were telling. “Why don’t you rest up for today and just have an early start tomorrow?” 

“Mariko-san, I still have to —“

“Mariko-san, Akaashi-san, good afternoon. The urgent mail from Tokushida-sensei just arrived.” Yamada-san, one of the lobby receptionists nodded as she said in her dry but pleasant voice.

She handed over a thick envelope to Mariko-san and turned to Akaashi, “Akaashi-san, your food delivery is downstairs.”

Akaashi blinked in surprise. “I didn’t order anything?”

“That’s strange. Could someone have ordered for you?”

“It might be a mistake but I’ll go down and check. Thanks, Yamada-san.”

The world just kept on throwing distractions one after another, Akaashi thought while waiting for the elevator. There was so much to do, so much to think about, and _so_ _so_ little time. He wanted to curl into a ball and cry until the tightness in his chest dissipated but so much still needed to be done. 

“Ah, hello? I’m Akaashi Keiji.” Akaashi said to the only person waiting in the lobby. He seemed like a part-timer still in high school, wearing the uniform of a well-known ramen restaurant.

“Yes! This is for you. It’s hot —please be careful, sir.” 

Akaashi gingerly accepted the package, wondering why the boy was so nervous. “I didn’t order anything?”

“It’s been paid for, sir. And uh, there’s a note from the sender inside, just so you don’t miss it.”

Who on earth would send Akaashi a meal?

“Thank you,” Akaashi paused, looking for a name tag. “Kurata-san.”

“Um, sir, sorry if it’s a bother but I just want to say I love Meteo Attack! I thought your name was familiar and I was right, you worked in Meteo Attack and I love it! I play volleyball and I’m not that tall but the story is really really amazing!"

Akaashi smiled, feeling some of the weariness of the day disappear with the earnest appreciation of something he’s worked hard at. “If you can come back here next week any time after Tuesday, I can leave you a signed copy from Tenma-sensei with the receptionist.”

“I will, sir! Thank you so much!” the kid said, bowing. He made Akaashi a little nostalgic with his resemblance to Hinata’s days as Karasuno’s cheerful baby crow.

—

Akaashi opened the package on the editorial team's pantry and was promptly stunned. 

A pack of cold noodles and steaming bowl of ramen broth.

_Tsukemen._

A note saying: _“Take care, ‘Kaashi. Eat well for me."_

Oh no. 

Oh no. 

Before spring came in and Osamu-san stayed for a few days at his place, Akaashi hid a tiny little thing called a crush in some unnamed corner in his heart. That little spot is now bursting at the seams and the warmth is seeping through his veins, erasing the weariness of the day, and travelling all the way to the tips of his ears.

_Oh no, indeed._


End file.
